Oh, the smell of the bakery from across the street, got in my nose
As we carried our ladders down the street with the wrought-iron gate rows
I went home and listened to Jimmie Rodgers in my lunch-break
Bought five woodbines at the shop on the corner
And went straight back to work

Oh, Sam was up on top and I was on the bottom with the V
We went for lemonade and Paris buns at the shop and broke for tea
I collected from the lady and I cleaned the fanlight inside-out
I was blowing saxophone on the weekend in that down joint

What's my line? I'm happy cleaning windows
Take my time, I'll see you when my love grows
Baby don't let it slide, I'm a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows, number thirty-six

I heard Leadbelly and Blind Lemon on the street where I was born
Sonny Terry, Brownie McGee, Muddy Waters singin', "I'm a Rolling Stone"
I went home and read my Christmas Humphreys' book on Zen
Curiosity killed the cat, Kerouac's 'Dharma Bums' and 'On The Road'

Well, I am able to answer that, "I went to Lake Yosemite. I had a long walk up the Merced Irrigation District's Main Canal, which feeds directly off the Merced. So, starting at the parking lot at the end of Old Lake Road, I proceeded to an old concrete bridge, crossed it, got into some slightly rising terrain on that bank, called a halt and turned around about a mile or so south of the Highest Point Closest to Town--or is it the Closest Highest Point to Town. It's confusing. Anyway, babble on like a mud hen, I will, usless birds."

This was the 19th, Saturday. It was a miniature course in geography. It was hot, but not roasting. I saw not one other person, not even a golfer on the thirteenth hole at Merced Hills Golf Club.

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

This bend in the anal takes you over to G Grade, about a mile of walking. My car was parked where it would be locked up at 5:00 p.m. Time to go now.

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

It was a good little eden, perfect for my species of rodent. The commute is killer, though.

Credit: mouse from merced

Start of the return journey.

Credit: mouse from merced

Credit: mouse from merced

Those were mostly the flying birds whose portraits are worthy for your eyes.

How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun!
How lovely and joyful the course that he run.
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain!
But now the fair traveller's come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best.
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian; his course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way;
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his day,
Of rising in brighter array.

band·width
noun ELECTRONICS
1.
the range of frequencies within a given band, in particular that used for transmitting a signal.
2.
the energy or mental capacity required to deal with a situation.
"he lives alone, and says he doesn't have the bandwidth to handle a steady relationship"

One day in the 1980s my father called to share some exciting news. A shot-putter on his track team—Dad was a high school athletic director—was breaking all the state records. “This kid spent the whole winter in the gym, lifting weights. Real dedication. A testament to hard work.” Then Dad paused and added, “He has a terrible temper. The coaches don’t know that to do with him.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “Does he happen to have a lot of acne on his shoulders and back?”

Then Dad said something that betrayed the weak link in his optimistic and innocent 20th-C American attitude: “Our kids would never take steroids.”

I truly believe America is going through a bad patch that future historians may well call “The Age of Cheats.”

MLB was at a low ebb after the 1994 players’ strike. Then saviors appeared in the form of sluggers with the bodies of Greek gods: Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds. The assault on the home-run records of Babe Ruth, Roger Maris and Hank Aaron began. America was hooked. But some inconvenient details were overlooked. Sosa was a former 165-pound rookie who weighed 220 pounds the year he banged out 66 homers, chasing McGwire’s 70. Bonds was the best natural athlete ever to play baseball. But the fast and graceful Bonds, who used to hit 40 home runs and steal 40 bases with exceptional agility when he weighed 185 pounds, suddenly bulked up to 230 pounds and could barely bend over to tie his shoes. His spirit turned mean. But he hit 73 home runs one year. And America loved it.

We also fell in love with a cyclist, Lance Armstrong, who beat cancer and won the Tour de France seven times. Armstrong claimed he was clean—and still does. But how many clean athletes pay a consulting doctor who was banned from sports in his native country, Italy (and recently from all Olympic sports in all countries)? The US Anti-doping Agency says Dr. Michele Ferrari advised Armstrong and teammates on how “to inject [banned oxygen-enhancer] EPO intravenously in order to avoid the drug showing up in a urine drug test.” The way one cheats in endurance sports is to boost the oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood. Drugs like EPO will do that as will blood transfusions. Armstrong may have some or all of his Tour de France titles stripped [a done deal—this piece was written for August, 2012, publication].

Cycling and Olympic sports are often cited as the dirtiest sports, but that’s only because pro team sports, abetted by their players’ unions, turn a blind eye. Does anyone seriously believe that NFL players are cleaner than, say, Olympic swimmers? To believe that is to believe that the arc of human evolution suddenly jumped the curve in the late 1980s, producing a race of 300-pound men able to leap tall buildings and run the 40-yard dash like a bullet.

As Go Sports...

Cheating in sports is but a single facet of the cheating that’s rampant today in everything from education to finance to government. The financial meltdown of 2008 was a bonfire of bad behavior on all sides. Fannie Mae is built on the lie that every American is capable of paying a mortgage. Mortgage lenders steered victims into loans they could never pay. But the victims were not all innocent. Many lied on loan applications, claiming incomes the never had.

President Obama wrote a biography based on fabrications, which he admitted to this year. The oddest of those lies concern the “girlfriend” he now says was a “compression” of real people. Even small lies reveal character.

[I, personally, have never heard of this allegation/confession. Feckin’ feds. Never a dull moment!]

A new and growing form of cheating is taking place in our high schools. During tests, particularly SATs, kids are popping speed and prescription drugs meant to treat attention-deficit disorder. Anything for an edge.

Make no mistake, our Age of Cheats is a sign of rot. The US government fudges its numbers (by way of the monetary printing press). Our pols call reduced growth rates “cuts in spending.” Our biggest banks take obscene risks and cry poor when they don’t work out. But we’ve risen above moral rot before. The US has transcended slavery and civil war, as well as periods of rampant corruption and paralyzing resentment.

Let’s hope the Age of Cheats is drawing to a close, because a full recovery won’t be possible until it’s over.
--Rich Karlgaard, Forbes Magazine, August 2012

Earl Clark (Mr. Universe and proprietor of World Gym) tried to recruit Leonard Sell into his steriod regimen back in 1962 in Chula Vista. The result, Lenny got more pussy than Ronnie Hawkins. Did either one cheat on his wife? Did either wife cheat on the body builder? Was Len Sell gay.

These are the questions that haunt our times.

Like the Naked City, there are millions of these stories, questions and answers.

A CV may be likened to a small, self-propelled, floating National City.

I am full of hot air. Blimps are filled with non-flammable gas, hydrogen, I guess I think I remember.

Don't put me in charge of flotation, OK, Chief?

There was a sailor who hung on the end of a blimp's rope a bit too long and the craft rose so quickly he could not safely let go and drop to the ground, and so he waited until he could no longer hold on.